Survivor's Guilt
by BoiledMermaid
Summary: Within the safety of military custody, the psychological wounds are given an opportunity to fester.


_I'm stuck in a funk, so I started verbally doodling this. Hope you like it._

* * *

To survive would imply each component of a functional whole had remained intact, that the ordeal had not clawed at personal fears, or scratched deep at the bones of human inadequacy. "So yeah," Rochelle is saying to a jaded doctor, an older woman, half-rim glasses balanced on the tip of her pinched nose, clipboard grasped in one hand, wielding a pen in the other, a white-knuckle grip, frantically scratching down each word as though it held some deeper meaning, some dark secret to be analyzed and pulled apart in the laboratories later, "Yeah, we made it," an unenthusiastic shrug of shoulders, resignation and regret, bodies ruined and bleeding, incomparable to the sense of melancholy festering at their core, "But I wouldn't say we _survived_."

Nick's modelling dark shades of dusk around his eyes, skin the colour of day-old bruises. Rochelle still convinces herself of crusted blood the colour of rust, flaking from the too sharp lines of his face, harsher now in the halogen glow, his expression a study in linear geometry, angles and lines carved by the clumsy fevered hands of the circumstances that led them here.

He's lighting a cigarette, a thinly veiled tremor rocking the bones that hold him, the warm orange glow momentarily disguising his eyes as shadowed, empty holes, visions of mortified skin, vicious claws, protruding bones and exposed cartilage briefly bleeding into her vision. Out of habit, she's wrapping her arms around her chest, folding herself smaller and smaller, a tiny paper origami girl attempting to make herself less of a target, Nick's tongue is just as lethal as a Smoker's.

She hates this apartment, white wash walls, threadbare carpet, standard issue furniture, and she thinks they are so far beyond that. '_Survivors_', '_heroes_' fit for guided gold frames and mansions of marble.

Nick's singed cigarette scars in the fabric of the armchair, too many nights slipping into memories of darkened alleys and dingy safe houses, too many hours spent nursing elegant glass tumblers filled with liquid amber, ethanol fog making him lazy, unresponsive, too far gone to pay attention to where his ashes fall.

Nick doesn't believe in photographs, not anymore, doesn't believe in '_cherished memories_', understands that nothing is permanent, nothing really '_stays_'.

After the fall of the world, he'd smile and say he was a lone wolf, a sly grin, a flicker of teeth, the phrase losing more and more coherency each time he would utter it, sounding more like him attempting to convince himself of some truth in the words. A poker-faced attempt at facing the reality of losing loved ones from a previous life.

Following their rescue, their isolation into tiny communities, pockets of normality built among the wreckage, Nick found himself a wife, a pretty young thing, exaggerated curves and soft curls, tell-tale calluses of a survivor ruining the palms of her delicate doll-like hands, and in his desperate attempts at reviving routine and the generic white-picket fence imagery Rochelle herself secretly craved, he had slipped his ring onto her dainty, polished finger. An intricately carved chunk of gold, a metaphorical ball and chain, anchoring her to him, proving it was still possible to hold onto people while everything else collapsed around them.

And for a while, one solitary photograph perched precariously on the mantel, white dresses and crisp suits, false smiles on jaded faces. An image to prove something good could grow from the wreckage. Until one day, it was gone, as was his lovely wife, replacing it, the golden shackle that bound them.

Rumours quickly ran riot of his rampant alcoholism, an almost sociopathic tendency to manipulate and control people. Others on the compound would whisper behind their palms, nod up at his apartment and say, '_Oh Nick?, I heard he's crazy_'. But Rochelle knows better, suffered Nick's often grating personality in both extremes, she's seen him at his best, head-shots and light-footing, humouring Ellis' constant chatter, if only with his sour brand of sarcasm. But she's witnessed him at his worst, his knee a mangled pulp of cartilage and too red blood, a twisted rag caught between his teeth, filtering the screams from his heavy breathing, trembling hands batting away Ellis' concerned, fluttering fingers, touching the edges of the wound without any obvious indication of how to dress it.

Rochelle knows there's no truth in the whispered words, the suggestions of his abusive nature. She's seen the looks pass between him and Ellis, warily watches them attempt to rekindle the same chaotic sense of danger they'd all experienced out in the wider world. Keeps her mouth shut and prays Coach intervenes before they damage each other any further.

Nick gently fingers one of the white gold hoops dangling from her ear, and she pauses in his spotlight gaze, surrounded and immobilised, not nearly familiar with playing the victim. He brings the cigarette to his lips, his expression warped, melting into something vaguely thoughtful before it's enveloped by the smothering grey fingers of smoke, stretching and curling to caress her cheek.

"At least someone's benefiting from all this," he says airily, turning away and picking his way through the debris to the window, blinds half shut, throwing bright bars of burning sunlight around the room, defining a cage for Nick's self-contained madness. He glances out, cautionary, squinting against the daylight, creases appearing around his eyes. An old habit, compulsory behavior, comforting gesture, eyes scanning the surrounding neighborhood, because sometimes he struggles to differentiate the shadows beneath his eyelids, separate the decaying corpses from this artificial, storybook '_new beginning_' they've bought into.

Nick's bitter, he wears it like a badge of pride, cannot wrap his head around how she felt it was okay for her to move on with her life. His sense of betrayal matched only by his disbelief. Her decision to see the psych had angered him, and he had consistently picked away at her, attempting to convince her to reconsider her decision. Rochelle had insisted it was for the best, shaking her head at each charismatic approach, each slight opening he saw in her defenses, viciously cutting him down to size one day, suggesting that if all the secretive, stolen glances suggested anything, it would be best if Nick were to recommend the idea of the therapy to Ellis too, and he opened his mouth to snipe back, but he found himself, for once, speechless.

Rochelle was right.

Ellis doesn't smile anymore. He tells his stories, fondly recalls his own history in words framed by an uncharacteristic boredom. The boy had poured so much of himself into their journey, dedicated so much energy to boundless optimism, so much hope to unanswered prayers that their own rescue left him devoid of much else to offer.

* * *

Nick prefers to linger in the brighter corners of Ellis' assigned accommodation, likes taking in the accents of his character as a whole, an entirety, and not just the muscle and mayhem he'd provided whilst the end of the world came searching for them.

Perched atop the arm of a moth-eaten, pea green armchair, empty coffee cup clutched in white knuckled hands, a snow fall of ash gathering within as he taps out cigarette after cigarette and still not a word passes between them.

Ellis would never complain, never bother to trouble the others with the darker half of who he is, but Nick sees the splintered ruins of a beside table shoved unceremoniously into a corner, one leg completely torn off, jagged teeth of wood bared in the absence of it's lost limb, the same decorative table leg Ellis keeps propped alongside his bed, fingers curled reassuringly around it's base as he lingers in the spaces in between sleeping and waking, a place he seems to spend the majority of his time, following their rescue. Paranoid and secretive, but lighting up that Hollywood smile, loosening the vowels in his lazy slur, and the psychologists overlook the glaringly obvious.

Nick moves to run his fingers along the remaining stump of the table, only pausing to read the titles of the books used to balance the wreckage. The tattered remains of various local maps, books on travel, exotic places with blue, blue, blue water and stretches of white sand, magazines on cars and motorbikes, the autopsy of machinery. Places he'll never get to see, things he'll never get to do, and here they are, propping up this tiny wooden table, on which rests his copy of "_Coping with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder_". Go figure.

"Shit, sorry man, I'm outta coffee, and my ration book's lookin' a bit on the thin side," comes the drawling voice of the mechanic from the kitchen area.

Nick's glancing at the dusty layer of ash coating the inside of his mug and makes a non-committal noise in response, reaching eagerly into the pocket of his jacket, fingers itching for another cigarette. Ellis is peering around the door, all faux smiles and country charm, a slow healing bruise, clashing shades of maroon and mustard beneath his eye.

"You okay, man?" he inquires in the absence of Nick's normally scathing responses to even the simplest of statements. The gambler barely glances up, reluctant to fixate on the pink ribbons of scars scratched into the tanned skin of Ellis' neck, streaks of shimmering scar tissue creeping out from beneath the sleeve of his shirt, spreading like vines along the smooth expanse of skin.

_It had been a witch; a blur of motion, her high pitched wailing, shrieks of despair, the sounds of unearthly, china-white claws sparking off concrete with the force with which she bared them. White lace and blood bone fingers, leather and teeth and the voice of apocalypse, she'd torn Ellis to the ground in a flash of lightning, the smell of blood and decay lost between the layers of dirt and the choking stench of sugar mills. _

_Rochelle had panicked, stressfully assessing the situation through glances snatched over her shoulder, her attentions for the most part, distracted elsewhere, the satisfying crack of bone and cartilage, a thick, pasty gel of blood and brains congealing on the front of her shirt. Her voice seemed to echo over the thunderous rainfall, balancing a fine line between authoritative and uncharacteristically shrill, her concern and urgency thinly veiled by her choice of words. _

_Coach had barreled past Nick, knocking him aside easily, fire axe raised above his head, the booming sound of his voice, string of expletives spilling from his mouth temporarily distracting the witch, her talons raised, dripping ruby red droplets each blooming like violent roses on the material of Ellis's shirt, his head tilted away from them, the scene a mess of gore and dirt. And Nick could only focus on the rise and fall of Coach's axe, the sickening crunch of bone as he cleaved her twisted, greying face in two, a thick spray of coagulated blood exploding across Coach's face, and Rochelle seemingly whispering in from somewhere beyond the scene laid out about his feet, "For Christ sake, Nick, get him up."_

"Nick, kinda phasing out on me here, man," and Ellis doesn't touch him, because it feels like something's missing in the physical contact, dirty gauze and ribbons of pristine white bandages, no sticky, blood-stained fingers to complete the circuitry. A creeping sense of social anxiety pricks at his nerves, his discomfort evident in the way he gingerly touches calloused fingertips to the rake of nails along his jaw, and Nick doesn't miss the subtle movement, nor the reminder it implies, still sharp reflexes snatching at the boy's wrist, yanking it away, probably too harshly, but Ellis is familiar with the rough and tumble by now.

* * *

Nick's saying maybe he should go for the night, head back to his own quarters, stop surviving off the decaying bones of a relationship built, barely stable, between the two of them. An audible groan of joints, the screams of old battle scars from beneath his skin, as he heaves himself from his perch.

Ellis has learned to disguise the flinch beneath careful layers of easy grins, but he swears he hears the high pitched screech of shrapnel scratching protest into cartilage and bone, but then again, he knows the story for its secrets, having taken the shot himself, Nick's knee exploding in a pinwheel of vibrant red.

"Or you could stay, you'know?" Ellis offers, perhaps a little too eagerly, but he is overcome by guilt at the sight of Nick's awkward limp, but the easy smirk that creeps across the con man's face is almost enough to smother that guilt before it consumes too much of his conscience.

Almost.

* * *

Coach let's himself in most mornings, Ellis' spare apartment key winking in the sunlight, catching his attention from beneath the feet of a rosy-cheeked, clay gnome.

These visits serve to occupy his time within the constraints of the compound, a poor substitute for a Sunday morning's spent in church, head-bowed and pious. Coach thinks the bible passages, spinning stories of the end of days, four horsemen and their ill-advised gifts, an inadequate verbal representation of shambling corpses and their snapping jaws. Vision blurring temporary shades of gore and anxiety, he's eagerly snatching at the worn paperback shoved angrily between the threadbare sofa cushions, Ellis' new bible, coping mechanisms and varying symptoms, and Coach thinks that despite Nick's vague history of casino lights and cards, unpaid debts and broken kneecaps, Ellis is the one parading the picture perfect poker face.

Thumbing lazily through the pages, eyes scanning through yellow streaks of highlighted passages, the chicken scratch scrawl of margin notes, he still can't decide whether Ellis is dedicated to saving them all, or whether that sunbeam smile barely disguises a struggle to save himself.

A low groan echoes in the bedroom, the click click mechanism of bone sliding into place, and he'd be alarmed, the symphony of sound singing him the soundtrack of their experiences, but there's a low hum of voice, articulated words muffled by the thin walls dividing them, these brief glimpses of time, snatches of private moments when Nick's not a sharp-tongued viper, all tense muscles and teeth bared. Vague attempts at concern, consideration thinly veiled in the softness of his voice. Ellis' response is barely audible despite the silence of the apartment, a special, silent side of himself he seems to reserve for Nick.

Nick who only wants people, not their smiles, or their words, faux personalities and attempts at rehabilitation.

Ellis can stop acting when his audience already knows the ending.

Coach attempts nonchalance, the tiny, frail, yellow-paged book feeling clumsy and awkward in his calloused palms, his fumbling interrupted by Nick's too-sharp silhouette lingering in the doorway, arms folded across his chest, that brilliantly practiced blank look carefully placed into position across his features.

Coach doesn't know when it started, the mutual addiction to dependency, late nights turning into late mornings, heavy, cut glass ashtrays growing like weeds among the wreckage of Ellis' apartment. And sometimes Ellis' hair smells of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne, a fresh garland of poppy-coloured bruises blossoming along his throat. Sometimes blackened violet circles frame Nick's hazy glare, sleepless nights and sharp attitude problems and not an excuse offered to anyone, his mouth pinched tight around the secrets he seals behind his teeth, how he'd sit on the edge of their coffee-stained mattress, Ellis' eyes wide and fixed, searching the ceiling for answers, his voice a soft whisper, a broken loop of questioning, playing over and over. '_Everyone's okay, Nick, we made it_'. Nick, snatching at the bed side table, the overly aggressive scratch of a lighter, a sudden flicker of warmth spreading around the room, throwing eerie shadows across the mechanic's too young face, he's saying, '_Yeah, overalls. Yeah we did_'.

"You talked that boy into seein' the psych yet?" Coach is grumbling, voice carefully low, each word punctuated by the slap of the tiny paperback on a meaty palm, eyes darting from Nick's silhouette, a study in geometrically perfect angles, to the dim light leaking over his shoulder, the sounds of wrinkling sheets and protesting springs spilling out from the bedroom beyond.

Nick's shaking his head in the negative, his characteristic smirk not even momentarily slipping from his lips. Gnarled knuckles and bruised fingers sloppily rubbing at the stubble on his cheeks, he's saying, "It's really none of your business," pushing himself from the door frame, he's addressing the silence over his shoulder, "Ellis, you got anything stronger than coffee?", the response, a low moan through a fistful of pillow, is barely decipherable, and Coach is leaning on the balls of his feet, attempting to peek in, the sunlight only barely touching this side of the block, a dull haze casting dim shadows about the room.

Coach doesn't bother verbalising his thoughts on their current living arrangement, preferring instead to absorb and observe, taking careful, quiet note of the neglect evident about the apartment, and comparing the visuals to the deterioration of the people living within it.

Coach has no doubt Nick had been a man shaped by hardship long before any frantic, heavy-breath introduction on a doomed elevator, sharing each others' names if only for the sake of being remembered somewhere along the way.

Nick had been callous and calculating, sharp words and a sharper suit. Hands comfortable, almost caressing the cold gun metal pressed between his fingers. Unshakable cynicism and a self-absorbed, domineering obsession with self-preservation. Closed-off, guarded Nick, with his constant smirk and cutting sarcasm, the infection couldn't possibly reduce him to less.

But Ellis, bright-eyed and loud-mouthed Ellis, smiling and chattering throughout, the final tribute to the humanity they had lost, a memory personified, happier times, comfortable conversation. Ellis had a long way to fall, and the delayed impact of the severity of what they suffered gradually drained him, left room for Nick to sow his seeds of cynicism and bitterness. And to see such a strong beacon of optimism eventually crumble under pressure, was Christmas come early for the gambler.

And in a final tribute to an implied background coloured by criminal activity, Nick stole Ellis away from them, coveted him, hiding him away in the apartment, feeding him nonsense, nurturing the negative within him, encouraging whatever resentment Ellis nursed against the world. It was his prize. His reward.

He had contributed to it's ruin, he wasn't going to fix it so willingly.

That would be an admittance that he himself was in need of help.

* * *

"Ellis, Sweetie, Don't you think visiting the psychologists might be a good idea?" Rochelle's got that hopeful, encouraging smile warping her features and he's seen it before, through a mist of violent red, heralded by a symphony of gun shots and human anguish, but here, within the safety of the apartment, paper walls and air raid sirens, that twisted pink wound of a grin does not belong, the dimensions of her pretty face barely accommodating it's over-exaggerated shape.

He's swallowing back an explosive temper, something new that took root following their rescue, darker thoughts and feelings of nostalgia for people and places he can barely remember, a huge weight on his chest, he takes a deep breath, slow and focused to ease the burden before calmly standing from the table.

Rochelle's smile fades immediately, slipping from chapped lips into her cup of piss-water coffee, cradled like a life line between her palms.

"Ro', ain't nothing wrong with me," he's half laughing, hands pressed against his chest, hiding the weight that rests there, as though she could see it for what it was.

She looks skeptical, but remains tactical, face carefully schooled into some semblance of neutrality.

Rochelle herself had looked into the support services available on the compound, feeling like she had abandoned vital parts of herself somewhere in a half collapsed city, a smoke and fire hotel lobby.

Sitting in the tiny office, folding and unfolding delicate hands in her lap, eyes fluttering about the room, neutral shades of beige and cream, potted plants, polished wood and dyed leather furniture, she'd almost scoff, these doctor's in their white coats, nursing clipboards and welcoming smiles, they'd coax these victims through their own personal apocalypse, speaking of experiences shared, and yet, glancing around this office it was glaringly obvious that the end of the world had not touched these government officials, protected by titles and certificates, college diplomas and a few letters after their name, they didn't know how to survive.

Not like she did.

They didn't understand how much of herself she sacrificed in order to do so.

Rochelle spoke uneasily of stacked bodies, buzzing flies, the smell of decay she still can't scrub from beneath her skin, she held out her hands, cut and bruised, thick calluses forming, tiny nicks in her skin, each miniscule scar a testament to experience gained with gun handling and maintenance.

She spoke of Nick, his quick hands, deft knowledge of firearms, stubbing out a glowing cigarette on crumbling concrete to stand by her side, criticise and ridicule her, tongue filed sharp as the blade tucked discreetly into the waistband of his pants, her hands fumbling and awkward, trying to piece her pistol back together, a complicated puzzle of necessity.

She spun praise for Coach, his leadership skills, a voice of reason and rationality among the consistent arguments exploding like fireworks between Nick and Ellis, how, in the brief moments of down time, she'd find herself quaking to her bones, exhaustion pulling away at the threads, a fine fabric of stubbornness and willpower slowly coming undone by the sights she had seen, acts she had committed, and Coach would tower over her, place one hand on her shoulder and say, '_You did good, girl_' and it would be enough to fuel her for another day, a small smile of satisfaction creeping across her face.

She enthusiastically described Ellis, a whirlwind of words and naivety and an unshakable belief in his own immortality, his pointless stories, and wide smiles, how his constant chatter anchored them to the humanity of themselves they were fast forgetting. How he dedicated so much of himself to keeping their spirits up, to keeping himself alive, she thinks maybe he felt important, necessary. Thinks maybe he wasn't used to it beforehand, some pretty garage kid from out in the sticks, living his life by the good book, a life of nothing specific or spectacular, and suddenly he's keeping a team alive, people depending on him for support, and he just offered more and more of himself to their cause, eager to help, only to survive the ordeal, coming out the far end with not much left for himself.

The sessions seemed to creep into her regular routine, and Rochelle found herself relieved to finally express the hardships they had endured, how it felt to mash a human skull into a fine paste with the business end of a baseball bat, the acidic sting of glowing green bodily fluids, battery acid burning through layers of skin, the sickly ache of muscle, the smothering sense of hopelessness.

Her therapist would nod along, rarely offering her own opinions, reluctant to break the vivid scenes Rochelle would describe, eyes far away and glassy. Occasionally she would inquire, relatively inexperienced with regards dealing with the infected, and she would praise Rochelle her courage, her skills.

But the questions soon focused on her fellow survivors, Coach's health, Nick's relationship status, Ellis' mood swings, until one day her therapist called after her as she left the office, tucking a yellow, dog-eared book into her hands, saying,"I think your friend, Ellis, might find this a useful read."

_Ellis doesn't read_, she's thinking, but she takes the offering willingly, smiling her thanks before heading to the boy's apartment, her therapist's concerns alarming her.

It's been weeks since she handed him the book, a copy of "_Coping with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder_", and he had flipped it every which way in his oil-stained hands, eyeing it suspiciously before warily thanking her, placing it aside for the moment.

And now they find themselves in a situation becoming irritatingly routine, Rochelle hunched over her coffee mug, manufacturing articulate reasons as to why therapy might do Ellis some good, while the man in question busies himself cleaning mismatched glasses, dregs of watered down scotch, cigarette butts and Nick's undoubtable presence within the apartment.

"Ro, look, I'm just dandy! Don't know were you're getting' all these ideas 'bout therapy and whatnot, I ain't lonely or nothin' and you can be sure as shit I'm not gonna go do somethin' stupid after survivin' what we did".

Rochelle pretends not to notice the too loud clatter of thick glass tumblers on the work surface following the vague mention of '_something stupid_'.

"Ellis, you never leave this dump, Nick comes and goes, and you just stay. This isn't exactly the picture of domestic bliss."

He abandons his task by the sink, spinning on his heel to fix her with a stare that's all wrong on his features, narrowed eyes and pressed lips, Nick's glare through those blue, blue eyes. She can't help but notice the harsher shadows across his face, shallow cheeks in a gaunt face, a mouth-shaped bruise beneath his ear, barely concealed by the shaggy mess of hair. He follows the gaze, feels it like pinpricks, hot needles along the surface of his skin, mottled fingers instinctively reaching, massaging a different kind of injury, inflicted with a weapon far worse than heavy artillery or the rusted up chainsaw Ellis had taken such a shine to.

"Honey, this isn't normal," she starts again, quietly, afraid of startling him, his teeth already bared, ready to attack. She's had some experience dealing with agitated predators. A large, graceful arc of her arm, a delicate sweep, indicates their surroundings, splintered furniture and empty food cartons.

"Open yer eyes Ro', there's not much normal left in this world."

* * *

"Are you happy here, kid?" Coach eases himself back on the old wooden chair, the protesting creak seemingly echoing in the tiny apartment.

Ellis doesn't flinch at the sudden disturbance, gazing forlornly into what is now, presumably, an ice cold cup of coffee. Every ounce of his chaotic attention span focused on the lazy ripples wrinkling the surface, reading solutions and secrets from the shadows and shapes cast within. His blue eyes glossy and unfocused, subconsciously sucking his lower lip between his teeth, gnawing at the thin skin, red and swollen under his ministrations.

Coach raises a brow, finding himself abandoned in unfamiliar territory, Ellis' stretching silences, the tense line of his shoulders inspiring nothing but questions, Coach's tactical mind spinning a mile a minute, composing, prioritising lists of observations and theories and endless reasons as to why Ellis should consider therapy, reflect on whether this disturbing symbiotic relationship he's managed to cultivate with Nick is a particularly healthy situation to find himself in.

"Does Nick look after you?" but he already knows the answer, sees it scratched into the boy's skin, raised pink welts, Nick's fingerprint pressing hard enough to scar.

Hearing the name spoken aloud seems to act as a trigger, Ellis is suddenly catapulted into the throws of a conversation he didn't seem to be aware was occurring without him, eyes glassy, he's blinking furiously as though just woken, raising a hand to run trembling fingers across the remains of a witch's caress, permanently carved into his skin.

"Huh?" anxiously eyeing the doorway to the bedroom, as though the man in question could hear their every word.

Coach slowly repeats the question, but any sense of good humor Ellis was parading is clearly wearing thin, instantly losing his patience with the patronising tone, slamming a battered fist down on the flimsy wooden table, splinters embedded in the skin of his clenched hand. His mouth a grim pressed line, eyes alight with a fury Coach recalls from sleepless nights spent wading through the Savannah swamplands, the taste of rot and insects thick in their mouths, Ellis' face a painter's masterpiece in streaks of clotted blood and bile.

"I don't need lookin' after," he's protesting, vowels a sharpened mess of edges and angles, the twist of a strong country lilt once again accommodating itself within the soft shape of his mouth. There's hesitation in his hand gestures, a small questionable movement, but Coach sees the action before a distracted Ellis can disguise it. Sees how the kid reaches habitually for the violent red scratches, a vicious inscription, each cut, each tear another example of his necessity for supervision. Catching his hand halfway through an aggressive arc, he distracts himself, pinching the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger, eyes squeezed shut, the boy wearing an expression twenty years his senior.

Coach watches him take a deep breath, suck in the scent of cigarettes and smothering, an aroma quickly becoming synonymous with the apartment.

His lips move in silent counting, calm and composed and unlike any incarnation of the vibrant boy coloured by curiosity and a craving for adventure.

"Ro' thinks maybe you should go talk to the psych," Coach is offering, uncomfortable under the weight of the mechanic's silence.

Ellis had always demonstrated a boundless optimism, and a penchant for unpredictability, viewing the infection as another opportunity for him to showboat his talents, his familiarity with survival skills. But he would never have endangered his team mates, not intentionally, oft times going out of his own way to ensure their comfort. And now, this tainted, lacking side of himself has surfaced, adding a sinister element to his characteristic unpredictability, and a vicious temper he'd never displayed before, and that was what Coach was finding most disconcerting.

Anxiously eyeing the bedroom door as Ellis himself had done only a few moments previously, Coach is fully aware should Nick join the fray, any reasoning Ellis had been willing to entertain would instantly fall on deaf ears. Nick's stance on therapy was a solid, well-defined constant, a shadow over most of their recent conversations. He firmly believed that what they had endured classified them as survivors, as humans, and that any attempt at forgetting would instantly erase those parts of themselves, parts they had struggled to mold and manoeuvre in favor of the parts lost when the world began to collapse around them.

"I ain't talking to no quack," and Ellis' voice is eerily calm, leaves no room for queries or suggestions, eyes still pressed closed against Coach's judgmental glare.

And there it is again, that comforting, familiar gesture, fingertips massaging at the thin ropes of scar tissue, lingering momentarily at a fresh bruise, a crimson coloured kiss of mottled skin. And Coach could nearly guess at the perpetrator, he's heard enough sarcastic insults and cutting remarks masterfully composed by the same mouth.

He knows it's pointless to attempt explaining to Ellis that Nick isn't necessarily on his side, perhaps reminding the boy of Nick's previously confessed dabbling in fraud and conning, his well honed skills of manipulation executed with a silver tongue and the gambler's own brand of charisma.

Coach is wary of belittling Ellis' own intelligence however, having witnessed his own moments of genius while they attempted to escape the infection, doesn't want to make him feel stupid or small in comparison to Nick's own brand of slightly sinister influence.

Coach struggles with his concerns, to rebuild the collapsing mentally of their youngest, or to break apart the one relationship that seems to keep him supported, regardless of it's abusive, manipulative nature. And he might waste his time attempting to convey these elements to Ellis, but he has a growing suspicion the kid is already fully aware of them, even welcomes them.

"Listen up, Ellis, I don't claim to know what's going on here, but-" and the kid cuts him off, flinging his arms in the air with frustration, an angry snarl escaping his mouth, "It's nobody's damn business! Okay?"

Those eyes are opened and focused once again, any trace of airy fantasy lost, the glassy quality fading in favor of this heated glare, hands braced against the counter top, his brows raised, mouth hanging open in some curious combination of indignation and daring, willing Coach to question his defense, a confusion in his features saying maybe he hadn't been expecting such a verbal reaction to explode from his own mouth, suddenly wary of Coach's response, the way the older man puffs out his chest, a frown warping his normally friendly features.  
"

Boy, you better watch your mouth. We're just trying to help you," the eerie calm and honesty, a genuine concern Ellis has become unfamiliar with, smothered by Nick's half-baked attempts at feelings he's long forgotten how to express, startles him, his arms lowered to his side, face creasing with guilt, eyes settling on anything, abandoned plastic containers of rancid food and buzzing flies, Nick's discarded cigarettes, an old stolen lighter glinting silver in the morning sunlight, anything to avoid the parental brand of disappointment clearly displayed on Coach's face, echoed in his choice of words.

"Yeah? Well I don't need it. You already got me here. That's enough," and sometimes Ellis can't pinpoint how he feels, the spectrum varies so widely and so rapidly, anger is happiness is sadness. And he's here because they want him here, their bonds are emotional chains.

He sometimes thinks maybe killing himself is too easy, it's so strange a concept, considering the efforts he went through to arrive in this place. It's not him, so far removed from himself that he rarely finds himself considering the idea, even in the darker moments of his madness. But living here, adjusting, happy and comfortable beneath the pressing thumb of military custody, he can't survive under these circumstances, can't thrive and adventure, wild and free and completely devoid of responsibility, aspects of a previous life that remained with him despite the infection ravaging the lands.

He merely exists most days, craving what they've left behind, and even existence is tough, requires a certain amount of foresight, trained skills in acting, smiling on cue, action reaction, conversations and human contact.

He avoids it mostly, holed up inside their ramshackle apartment, preferring to let his mind linger outside the walls of the compound, where he lived every second on the edge of life or death, genuinely fighting for something, passionate and feral.

He misses it.

And so does Nick, and it's easier to thrive on a shared idea.

He thinks maybe that's why the older man stays, sits on the edge of their stained mattress and lights cigarette off of cigarette, uttering whatever comforting words he can muster, expertly using them to interject, divert the flow of Ellis's own self-deprecating soliloquy until the nicotine pumps in his veins, leaning over him, rubbing the coarse pad of his thumb along still moving lips, pressing further until he feels teeth sinking into his skin, offering any sort of means by which to relieve the tensions and building frustrations.

Nick who misses the person Ellis was.

Ellis who misses the places they were.

"We just want you to be happy, kid," Coach interrupts his thoughts, forcefully returning Ellis' cart-wheeling thoughts to the claustrophobic, stifling atmosphere of the tiny room. And Ellis would almost snigger, recalling snatches of his previous trail of thoughts, a lack of control over his own rapidly changing emotions, equally lacking a title to give them.

"I don't think we're meant to be, not after all that," his voice seems calm and quiet, gentle in contrast to his previous outbursts, and undoubtedly sad, his resignation evident in the sagging line of his shoulders, the softening of hardened expressions across his face. And Coach is far too battle-hardened to express sympathy, or physical compassion in the came comforting tones and gestures Ro would expertly bestow upon the lost soul standing before him, but he cannot deny the sense of failure that eats away at his conscience, the disappointment in realising that he is partially to blame for the disenchantment of such a vibrant, youthful character. Any anger instantly drains from his voice, his expression, and he thinks maybe he's running out of ways to show this boy there's something left to strive for.

"So that's it? You. Ellis? Throwin' in the towel after all the shit you been through? You're gonna settle for this?" he asks, tone soft and slow, hints of his own accent creeping into his words. He barely raises his arm to gesture to the carnage around them, the ruins of a life Ellis has managed to allow cave in around him, Nick encouraging this self-destructive behavior from a safe distance away, finding some perverse amusement in the breakdown.

"Fer what?" Ellis questions, lifting his eyes from the tiling in genuine confusion, briefly scanning their surroundings for any trace of an answer.

"Ellis?" And the solution provides itself, Nick stepping from the bedroom, hair tousled, shirt wrinkled from sleep, apparently disturbed by Ellis' earlier outburst, already reaching for the cigarette perched above his ear.

Ellis makes the quickest flash of eye contact with Coach, defiantly pursing his lips, rolling his jaw, daring the older man to protest. The slightest glance says it all.

'_Yes. I'm settling for this._'

* * *

"Do you miss it out there?" Ellis asks one night, suddenly, unexpectedly; breaking a thickening silence weighing heavy about the room.

His breathing had been a deep, rhythmic lullaby, Nick had been so thoroughly absorbed in shuffling a scorch-marked, water damaged deck of cards; he had wrongly presumed the kid to be asleep.

He awkwardly adjusts himself, sheets tangling and snagging about him with the movement, eyes peering into the a.m. dullness in some lazy, sleep deprived attempt at assessing Ellis' current mood, the inspiration for such a morbid line of questioning.

Nick has become increasingly aware of Ellis' battle with his inner demons, guilt and regret constantly taunting and persecuting the kid. He's flicked through that battered bible of psychological bullshit, yellowed pages frayed and torn, protruding from under the sofa cushions, has read through Ellis' margin notes, warnings and advice, highlighted symptoms and ticked boxes of mental suffering, recognises the warning signs of depression for what they are, dark shadowed fingers slowly dismantling a human being from the inside out.

As if the horrors he'd seen out in the world weren't terrifying enough, these hidden Devil's preferred to inflict their damage over an extended period of time, a prolonged suffering, one Ellis is not deserving of.

"I don't miss, Ellis," he offers lightly, not committing to this morose topic of conversation, not tonight, reluctant to encourage Ellis' blacker moods, fighting his natural urge to pander to the darker sides of human behaviour.

The younger man is not so easily swayed, determined to discuss the topic at hand before it festers in his brain and becomes somewhat of an obsession, the idea of escaping and reliving what they were.

An idea he's half hoping Nick will talk him out of.

"What if I went back?" he's gushing, hurrying to continue at the incredulous look Nick levels him. "Maybe I could join the military? Go out on assignment with them? D'you think they'd let me?" and he can't help the enthusiasm leaking into his voice, with each question he can almost hear the smirk spread wider across Nick's face, an unbearable grin completely at home on the con man's sharp features.

So the idea is farfetched and fantastical, Ellis' ruthlessness with firearms alone enough reason to deny him entry into the military, Nick opts to keep his mouth shut with regards the vigorous psychological testing inflicted upon candidates

"You're leaving me?" Nick interrupts bluntly, eager to stop this quickly deteriorating train of thought. The question is loaded, laced with sarcasm, and he isn't particularly expecting a response, at least not one as final as the answer Ellis provides.

"You don't need me, Nick." And that's it, the sum of their relationship, all the suffering and hardship, the subtle manipulation disguising a genuine concern for each others' well-being, the sarcasm and verbal abuse, and to a lesser extent, the physical. Late night's of whispered reassurance, early morning arguments over cigarettes and ashtrays, and Ellis summarises who they are and what they've become with such a fleeting sentence, Nick is overwhelmed by a conflicted sensation of jealously and anger, not so easily cast aside by Ellis' self-righteous attitude.

"I left my wife because of you. What makes you think I won't replace you just as quickly?" And it's a serious accusation masquerading as a joke in poor taste, Nick's specialty, but Ellis doesn't seem moved, hauling himself to a seated position to clumsily fold his arms a round his knees, cradling them to his chest, an eerily childish gesture of comfort, and Nick is suddenly reminded of how young his companion is, how insignificant and tiny they are as individuals, and he thinks maybe these are the feelings that take root and fester behind Ellis' eyes, the hopelessness of their situation tainting every word to spill out of that pretty mouth.

"You can't replace me, that's the problem, 'least, not the '_me_' you actually want," Ellis' confession, an acknowledgement of his own condition, the reluctant transformation he endured following this new found sense of security, courtesy of their status in military custody. Admittance that somewhere along the line, he made a conscious decision to grow-up, a self-inflicted maturity, locking away the optimism, the unshakable self-belief, hiding it away and letting something dark and empty fill up the spaces of his character until it gradually consumed the pieces he had tried to protect.

He's not the kid Nick first encountered in an elevator thick with smoke, the doors glowing red and hot to the touch, frantic introductions and fumbled handshakes. Not the stupid young pretender with the blood-spattered shirt and torn knuckles, the same stupid pretender Nick had wanted once upon a time.

Nick had settled too.

For a half mad kid, tormented by bouts of depression and a desperate nostalgia for a world that had literally died all around them.

And that thought alone makes Ellis feel infinitely lonely, like the distance between them is suddenly a vast black hole, swallowing stars and stares and any serious sentiment Nick had left to offer. A caricature of a relationship to match the mockery of normal life they'd attempted to construct within the walls of the compound.

"So what do we do now?" Nick asks, his tone soft, sensing something irreversible has occurred between them, irreparable damage, like any harsh words would crumble the fragile foundations of the relationship between them, shatter them like glass or ice, or bone.

"We just keep on survivin', I guess?" Ellis whispers on half a sigh, shoulders sagging with resignation and defeat, eyes glassy and distant.

"I wouldn't call this _surviving_, Overalls."


End file.
